martian, oh he's after us

By the time that Jim manages the both of them into the hospital and straight past the complaining triage nurse, it is, almost undoubtedly, a good thing that Spock is leaning more than a little of his weight on Jim's shoulder, feeling unsteady in the knees, with twitching and cramping in his toes. The cab-ride there had not been long, but long enough for Spock's fever to rise. Enough to tip the scales on an already unbalanced mind.

He barely has the prescience to ask for the man he's come to see - the only man in Darrow General he will allow to see him, whom he trusts for good reason. That, he manages. That, and little else.

The past three minutes have been a hazy string of arguments, one-sided, between Spock and Jim, and Spock and random passersby, such that it may even have been ideal for Jim to have stunned Spock. Except that Spock is still the best account of what might be wrong with Spock. The words he's managed in Standard since being half-dragged through the sliding glass doors are few and far between.

Ripping away from Jim's arms, he grabs a passing male nurse by a shirtful of his scrubs, pulling him near with anxious, fearful eyes.

"Tsi-veh OChase re? Re?" He gives the man a small shake. "Doctor Chase re?"